


Snap Second Decisions

by EdgeofFear



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: 3rd person, Drabble, Gen, How They Met, No pairing - Freeform, because valentine is a swearing kind of guy, but focused on Gazelle, dammit valentine, mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4340825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeofFear/pseuds/EdgeofFear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has a fraction of a second to make her decision, and when she does she can see that the man—older, black, watching with an open mouthed look that might be a smile underneath his crooked ball cap—is staring right at her, not moving. Sure, probably, that she’s going to turn at the last moment. <br/>That makes her decision for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snap Second Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, I'm incredibly rusty. I'm also obsessed with this movie, and all of the characters. Every. Single. One.   
> Anyway, let me know about spelling/grammatical errors if you find any.   
> This isn't beta'd by anyone but me, so all mistakes are mine.

She meets him quiet by accident. She’s out running, training her legs—endlessly training her body to accept these new legs, to move with the bounce and hop she isn’t meant to have in her step—and ignoring the stares. She’s been stared at her whole life, for one thing or another, but the stares have never _burned_ like they do when she knows they’re looking at her legs, watching the way her gait is wrong. Different.

She’s always been fast, and the legs that aren’t hers don’t hinder that, not anymore, not usually. She’s fast enough that a full, sudden stop isn’t possible.

She sees the man climbing out of a sleek black car, dressed in offensive green, with enough time to realize she’s about to run over what is probably a very rich person with very competent lawyers. She knows she can’t turn on a dime; there’s foot traffic around them, though not terribly heavy, but enough so if she does that and manages not to trip, someone else will get in the way.

Someone who probably can’t afford the medical bills she’d leave behind.

She has a fraction of a second to make her decision, and when she does she can see that the man—older, black, watching with an open mouthed look that might be a smile underneath his crooked ball cap—is staring right at her, not moving. Sure, probably, that she’s going to turn at the last moment.

That makes her decision for her.

She jumps, pushes off the side of his fancy car with one leg, and lands on the other side of him in a crouch.

“Holy _shit!_ ” She hears, as she stands and dusts herself off. She turns, ready to face anger or open disgust. She steels herself for it in the second it takes her to turn.

“You did a fucking _flip in the air_! Goddamn, girl!” He’s grinning, just this side of crazy, and stepping forward to offer her his hand.

“Call me Valentine.” He says, by way of introduction, and she takes his hand briefly to shake it. She’s still also gulping air into her burning lungs when he gives her a look.

“Louise,” She tells him, and he makes a thoughtful humming noise, nods once, and smiles at her again.

His eyes rake her body from head to, well, the end of her false legs. They travel back up, even more slowly, and she can see the heat banked there, low and warm. It’s not a new look at all; she’s used to men enjoying how she looks. Used to using it, too.

Just, not as much, since the accident.

“I’m about to head to lunch,” He gestures behind himself at what she assumes will be an upscale restaurant but is actually a McDonald’s. “Care to join me?” He smiles again, this time with less teeth, more gentle sincerity. She’s about to refuse when he adds, almost playfully, “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

She makes another snap second decision that has to do entirely with the man before her and shrugs, follows him into the restaurant.

She isn’t ready for the job offer; isn’t ready for his easy way of talking, of how charming and convincing he can be. She isn’t ready for him to ignore her legs completely, to not even ask about them, and she’s nowhere near prepared or the _need_ she feels to tell him about it. She bites it back, though.

He wants an assistant, he says.

“Me? Surely there are better,” _whole_ “qualified people out there.” She argues, and he laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Maybe, Gazelle. Probably, actually. But I _like_ you. I like your attitude. I like how fast you are at thinking out of tricky situations. I like your will to _keep fucking going_.” Valentine says, nothing but honesty in every line of his body, every breath of his pronouncement.

_Gazelle_.

“That’s not my name.” She tells him, rather than respond to anything else he said. She can’t think of a response to that, can’t even let the words really touch her, not yet.

“It could be.” Is all he has to say, before he finishes off a few more fries.

Louise sits quietly, idly moving the straw in her drink back and forth slowly, and thinks. She thinks of her tiny apartment, of the smoke stains on the ceiling that aren’t from her. She thinks of the midnight pains she gets, half asleep and useless from the knee down, stretching toes she no longer has until they hurt. She thinks about the family she doesn’t have, will never, since the accident, have.

And she thinks about this man across from her, obviously richer than Louise will ever hope to be, but so common. Eating a heart attack on a bun like it’s gourmet food specially made for him, sipping watered down coke like it’s fine wine. Valentine, he called himself. It doesn’t mean anything to her; she’s never been one for following celebrities.

“Just one more thing, and then I’ll leave you alone to think it over.” He says suddenly, softly. It startles her anyway, and she glances up to find him watching her, a serious look on his face for the first time since she jumped over his head. “You and me? We could go places, girl. I got plans, now, for those gorgeous legs of yours. Plans I won’t do nothin’ with ‘less you want me to.” He stands up and briefly grasps her shoulder in a strong, steady grip, “You think about it, and you gimme a call.” He slips a piece of napkin onto the table in front of her, and then he walks away, whistling.


End file.
